


Play Time

by imanadultiguess



Series: Greg and Sally [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Basically Greg is Sally's bitch, Blindfolds, Cockrings, Dirty Talk, F/M, I'm gonna be straight with y'all, Ice Play, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, PWP, Rare Pairings, Sally is a badass, Vaginal Sex, completed fic, probably bad BDSM etiquette, some light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally and Greg play after a tough case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ready to Play?

**Author's Note:**

> Holy fuck, y'all. Listen, I have two stories unfinished on here and I never thought I would be that person but I am and I'm sorry.
> 
> Also, like, I'm gonna give you a head's up. I know that sometimes readers get a little squicked when the gender roles get swapped. Like, I get it. If you don't like your women making your men cry, that's fine. If a lady playing with a guy's nips isn't your cup of tea, no worries, just hit the back button. I think, to some extent, we still expect our cishet men to behave like "traditional manly men" when in a relationship with a cishet woman, you know? I could be 100% wrong, and I certainly don't mean this offensively. It's a personal observation. I've looked for some solid FemDom fics but they're usually pretty hardcore and sometimes I just want a loving, female-led relationship. 
> 
> So, if that's not your thing, hey, that's fine, I just wanted to give you a head's up. It's smut; it's not meant to be politically correct or a political discourse on what happens in the bedroom in hetero-ships; it's meant to, you know, be enjoyed with tequila on a beach. 
> 
> Basically, this is a loving BDSM relationship. Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> You still have time to hit the back button.

Greg’s bare feet carry him from the bedroom through the hallway, the loose pyjama bottoms occasionally catching under his heel. Fog is heavy outside, casting a grayish-blue light through the windows of Sally Donovan’s flat, making his head feel heavy, as if he is half-asleep.

His tongue and lips still tingle from the mouthwash, and he wonders if perhaps he should’ve shaved before they get started. 

_It’s all right. Sally will tell you if she needs something else from you,_ he thinks, a smile pulling at his lips. 

He focuses on the not-entirely-pleasant cool of the hardwood floors beneath his feet, the fluffy softness of her spare robe wrapped loosely around him, keeping the chill away from his torso. He breathes in through his nose. Holds it. Exhales slowly. His arms feel heavier. He rolls his head side to side. He wishes he’d accepted the coffee she offered earlier. 

The detective stops just before he enters the living room. Sally is sitting next to the window, wearing her own loose-fitting pyjamas. The smell of her tea (Tetley’s, black, no sugar, tiny splash of lemon juice, a remnant of the semester she spent in the States) wafts over to him, sinks him deeper into calmness. He takes another deep breath. 

Sally still doesn’t look at him, but she does smile. “Last chance for tea or coffee.” 

“Better not.” 

She nods, closing the magazine she was reading. Finally, her dark eyes meet his, and he shivers. “Well? You coming in or you just going to stand there?” 

“Are we really going to do this in here?” he asks, not complaining--just curious. He hates being in the middle of scene and actually having to change scenery. 

“Yeah. I’d much rather play by the fireplace.” 

He nods, still not entering the den. He leans against the threshold, rubbing his face against the cool wall. He feels Sally’s eyes on him, and he finds he can’t bring himself to meet them again. 

There’s an intensity in Sally’s eyes that both comforts and terrifies him. Sherlock had once told him that he possessed a “bulldog tenacity” but he always thought that description was better appropriated to Sally. She was hard to get close to, but once someone past that barrier, Sally Donovan did not let go. Greg Lestrade found himself under the umbrella of her protection, and no matter what happens from here on out, Donovan would fight tooth and nail for him. Sally was a wonderful ally and a deadly enemy. 

He rolls his head again. 

“Tense?” 

“Bit, yeah.” 

“Come here.” 

“I’m not quite ready, I don’t think.” 

“No, come here, I’ll rub your neck, idiot.” 

There’s fondness even in her harshness. Initially, when they’d first met, Greg had been disturbed by her abrasive words and tone, but as he got to know her, he learned that was just her style of communication. She wasn’t a pleasant woman, that wasn’t her job, but she was kind and caring and, when the situation called for it, gentle. 

That had surprised him the most. Her gentleness. The way her fingers had curled around the nape of his neck when he found out that Anderson was being sacked. So soft and gentle and comforting. And yet so intense. 

There’s no other word for it. Sally Donovan’s attentions are intense, like the sun on summer days. Warm and wonderful and beautiful and searing and blinding and life-giving and damaging. 

He hesitates, then takes a step onto the massive rug that covers the majority of the living room. He watches her. She says nothing about getting to his knees. He pads over it, revelling in the fire-warmed fibers of the rug, a promise of things to come. Without being told, he gets to his knees, laying his head in her lap. 

“Rough case,” she says before she begins kneading at his neck and shoulders. Groans form in the back of his throat and gooseflesh breaks out across body. Her short fingernails scrape all the right places and soon he feels like his body is vibrating, purring. 

He shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t’ve brought him here. But he is and she did, and it has all happened before and it will all happen again. The NSY HR would be positively livid if they knew what the two of them were doing behind closed doors. 

The tension melts away. Outside, the rain picks back up, begins tapping against the windows. Her hands leave his neck, and he whines. “Oi, get up,” she snaps, tapping the back of his head. 

With some effort, Greg lifts his head, looking up at her with a sleepy grin. 

He loves this. He loves looking up at her, loves feeling protected and safe while she sits tall and proud. It’s not that he feels like he belongs on the floor, not that he feels like he’s at the bottom in the hierarchy of their relationship, not even that he feels unworthy; it’s that Sally is stronger than him. She’s unbreakable. And when he can’t, she can. She’s more than he is and that’s okay. 

He snakes his hands around the chair, begins massaging her calves, still grinning. 

She bops the back of his head again. “Knock it off, Lestrade.” 

“I can’t return the favor?” he pushes, his grin growing more mischievous. 

She raises an eyebrow. “Ready?” 

Greg nuzzles his head against her thigh before he can stop her. 

“Bastard!” she shouts, and Greg chuckles, skittering away before she can lay a hand on him again. 

“Think you’re cute, don’t you?” she asks, getting to her feet. “Kit’s under the sofa. Say your safeword.” 

“Sherlock.” 

“Stop grinning, this is serious,” she says solemnly. 

Greg bites his tongue, looks at the floor, trying to erase the grin from his lips. Sally is a responsible Domme. She doesn’t play without complete understanding and consent. No joking beforehand lest things get misconstrued. “Sorry, Miss.” 

“No, not ‘Miss.’ Not yet. Look at the kit. Tell me you’re okay with what you see.” 

Greg reaches under the sofa, feeling for the hard, smooth surface of the repurposed overnight case, his stomach fluttering with anticipation. It’s not particularly heavy; he’s sure it’s fine, but Sally has her rituals, likes to keep everything on the up and up. 

He undoes the clasps, and pulls out the towel first. He unfolds it and lays it beside him. Adjustable nipple clamps, connected by a thick chain. Black wrist cuffs with virtually no slack. Blindfold. And a piece of paper with Sally’s handwriting; “Ice.” 

Greg looks back up at her. “Should I go get the ice?” 

Sally shakes her head. “I’ll get it when it’s time. You good?” 

Greg nods, trying not to be too enthusiastic. Truthfully, he is a bit frightened. It’s always frightening to put yourself at the mercy of someone else, to be brought to your knees by someone you work with. He’s not entirely comfortable with this side of himself, if he’s honest. He doesn’t want Gregson or Dimmock to know what he does when he’s with Sally. So much of his job is posturing and fulfilling the traditional masculine role. So much of his identity is wrapped up in the gender binary. (Male is penetrative, intrusive; female is yielding, receptive.) The respect you command is directly related to how well you control the situations in which you find yourself. 

And yet somehow that’s in complete contrast to who Gregory Lestrade truly is. He likes being at Sally’s feet. He likes waiting for her on her bed. He likes it when she pulls pleas from his throat, likes it when she tells him he’s a good boy ( _her good boy_ ), likes it when she strips away his pride and brings out the whore he really is. He likes feeling quiet. He likes not being in charge. He likes making his Domme feel good. He likes making her proud. 

“Ready to play?” 

“Ready to play,” he confirms.


	2. Play Time Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sally get down to business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm really sorry, but I keep slipping in and out of present tense. I'm so so sorry. I tried to fix instances where I screwed up, but it's just me reading it, so who knows what I've done.

His stomach flutters again when she walks over to him. He remains still, settling into a submissive mindset. It’s not hard, it comes very naturally.

She runs her fingers through his hair. He’s switched shampoos, and she’s not pleased, but she doesn’t say anything. “Look at me,” she orders, her voice soft. 

Greg looks up without hesitation, his brain already emptying the unimportant contents of the day. She leans down, placing a soft kiss to his lips. She pulls back, and he whines. He wants more. More kisses. More perfect kisses from his wonderful Domme. Because he’s good, even if he’s an occupationally-frustrated idiot who couldn’t keep a wife and has to call in Sherlock Goddamn Holmes for every damn thing. 

Sally chuckles. Greg realizes he’s closed his eyes. He keeps them closed. Another kiss, this time to the corner of his lips. Then the other corner. Her fingers tangle in his silver hair, using just enough tug to keep his head still. She pulls at the robe, and he lets it slide off of his shoulders. He shivers, glad of the fire a few meters away. Sally’s fingernails graze over the stretch expanse of his neck, leaving a pleasant wake of burning sensations. 

He whines again. He wants kisses. Real kisses. 

She places another kiss to his lips, lingering before nipping at his bottom lip. “My good boy,” she murmurs. 

He moans his agreement in his throat. 

And then a real kiss. Her mouth works against his, parting his lips with her own, her tongue teasing his, and he’s passive. Receptive. He kisses back, matching her intensity and pressure with softness. It stokes the fire within her, and she tugs the hair at the back of his neck, angling his skull at her discretion. 

She breaks away from him again. “Still,” she tells him. She walks away, and he watches as she retrieves the blindfold. He tenses his shoulders, feeling for any tightness. He finds none. His smile resumes. 

“Up,” she commands when she is behind him, her shins pressed against back. He sits up straight, his legs bent at a ninety-degree angle. Her fingertips reach around and ghost over his brow. He presses into her touch. “Breathe in.” 

His chest rises. 

“Breathe out.” 

A soft exhale. The world vanishes as the blindfold closes in on his eyes. He shuts them anyway. He feels her curls brushing against the back of his neck and shivers. Her voice tickles the shell of his ear. “Hello, pup.” 

It’s just a pet name. They haven’t explored puppy play too in-depth. It’s nice just the same. _Pup._ He can be silly, make mistakes, he’s still loved and protected. 

“Ah, ah, hands to your side,” she says evenly. Greg didn’t even realize that he’d made a move to touch her. His arms fall to his side. “Better.” 

He doesn’t need to say sorry. 

The warmth of her presence vanishes and reappears, along with the new sensation of cool metal around his wrists. She clasps them at his front and pushes him onto his back. The rough material of the rug feels odd against his bare back. 

Greg lets himself be posed. She positions his hands above his head, arms stretched as taut as is comfortable. “Keep them there, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Yes. Yes ma’am,” he corrects himself, his voice thick. 

“Good boy.” 

The phrase sends a new wave of gooseflesh across his skin. It makes the rug feel even stranger. 

She spreads his legs, still clothed. He’s at half-mast, but he feels no urgency. Sally’s hands slide down his flanks, pressing firmly against the skin. Greg’s breath escapes him in the form of a moan. 

He feels her kneel between his open thighs. “My handsome pup,” she breathes. Her palm draws circles over his stomach, and he fights the urge to squirm. “I’ve been thinking about this all day, luv. Thinkin’ about you all day.” 

His grin broadens, and he can’t help but puff out his chest. It’s not quite pride he feels, but something similar to it. 

He can feel something change, her posture is different. Or her stance. But it’s okay, he tells himself. He doesn’t need to focus on what she’s doing, because she’s in charge and he’s a good boy. He doesn’t need to figure out what she’s doing or guess what she will do. 

_Warm_ and _hard_ enclose the edges of his left nipple, and he arches. _Teeth._ Light pressure, slowly increasing. She pulls off, teeth dragging over the newly-sensitized skin. He feels his groan in his throat more than he hears it. The sparks of something that’s not quite pleasure and not quite pain surge from his chest to his stomach to his testicles. “Jesus,” he whispers. 

Sally’s tongue teases over the hardened, erect flesh. He thinks he maybe can hear her laughing. “Fucking slut.” 

He swallows, his mouth dry as dust. He takes a deep breath. _Slut. Slut. Fuck your slut. Please, Miss Sally, please, I’ll be so good._ He remembers one of her most important rules: Never say it unless you mean it. “It” could mean anything, she elaborated. Safewords, begging, agreements, consent. Not time, then. Still too much happening in his head. 

A sharp pinch to his right nipple hurtles him to the moment, to Sally. “You focus on me, do you understand? You focus on me or you spend the night with a bright red arse, understand?” 

His trousers are tight now, constricting around his erection. More deep breaths in and out. The first time Sally Donovan had taken him over her knee had been, simultaneously the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him and the hottest. He’d wept, his balls aching from the occasional poorly-aimed swat. Or maybe it hadn’t been poor aim. Maybe it had been perfect. He’d been unable to sit properly for a few days. 

“Y-yes, miss,” he manages. He doesn’t know if he wants it or not. But that doesn’t matter--Sally knows what he needs. She will handle everything. He doesn’t have to make a choice, except maybe the choice to safeword, but thus far, he hadn’t needed it. 

She rolls his nipples, tugging them slowly, making him squirm. His cock is twitching in his pyjama bottoms. 

“Please,” Greg says, subduing the impulse to buck his hips. 

“Not yet. I want you sore. Sore and needy,” she answers. 

He whines, rolling his head to the side. 

“Relax, pup, just relax.” One hand comes up to massage the back of his neck. He hasn’t realized he was straining. He tries his damnedest to relax those muscles. “I’ve got you, luv. Gimme this.” He feels teeth dig into the sore skin of his nipple. 

His cock almost burns with the desire to be touched now. He’s never come without phallic stimulation, but the longer he plays with the Sally, the more he thinks it’s definitely within the realm of possibility. 

_This. Gimme this._ Her words echo in his head. This meaning pain? Pleasure? The freedom to do as she pleased? Himself? She has all of those things. 

“I’ve got you, luv,” she says, again. Her tone is softer, more demanding. 

He doesn’t know why he nods his head but he does. She stops kneading the nape of his neck, and the skin there feels so damn cold without her touch. “Yes, miss,” he answers. He realizes his voice sounds hoarse. 

Another vicious kiss. Demanding and intrusive and heavenly. Greg feels something unhinge in his chest, something heavy, something he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying around. 

“I don’t like my boys bringin’ their worries to my play time.” She’s stern, possibly even harsh, but Greg can only revel in the new sensation of being lighter. It’s not a huge difference, but it’s enough. Was that ‘this’? He still wasn’t sure what she’d just pulled from him, whether it was worry or pride or just the tension that comes from being 52, divorced, and bossed around by a 30-something and his arsehole brother. 

“No, miss,” he agrees. 

She resumes the torture to his chest. He doesn’t fight the urge to buck. His still-clothed, still-straining cock finds nothing to ease the pressure, the need. He keeps bucking with every bite and tug. 

“That’s better,” she praises him, her voice darker, huskier now. 

He preens. 

His nipples are swollen, probably purpling under her ministrations. He’s so sensitive now, he can feel a previously-imperceptible breeze sneaking through the flat. Greg can hear his own moan-laced gasps coming out of his mouth “ah, ah, ah.” 

He’s moved his cuffed hands closer to his chest, a misguided attempt at shielding himself from his Domme. Sally doesn’t berate him, just takes his wrists and replaces them over his head. 

Cool, new sensations clamp down on his nipples, and he feels the pressure increase, increase, increase until it’s a continuous sting. Nipple clamps, he realizes. “Oh, God, too tight, too tight, Miss,” he whines, his heels scrabbling at the floor. 

“Hush,” she snaps. She thumbs over the pinched flesh, making him cry out. “They’re fine, sweetheart. Supposed to be a bit of a bite, you know. Do you need to safeword?” 

He shakes his head. 

She thumbs them again, up and down and up and down. “Normal coloring, no unusual numbness. You’re fine, pup. Just a bit of a baby, I’d say.” 

Greg blushes. He continues to squirm. He’s not sure if he likes this new toy, but it’s not up to him, and she’s got him, and he’ll be fine. “Hurts, Miss.” 

He hears the smile in her voice. “I know, pup. You’re so handsome when you hurt for me. So damn pretty.” 

He thinks he might come from that. He grinds his cock against his pants, searching for some relief. He finds none. “Need kisses,” he pants. “Please, Miss, I need more kisses. Please, please, pl-” 

His Domme cuts him off with a hand in his hair. Her lips mash against his, her teeth and tongue toying with his mouth. He whimpers into her mouth, grateful. She tugs at the chain connecting the teeth of the two clamps, and he can’t focus on returning her kiss. He gasps, bucking again, his eyes watering. 

He can feel Sally leave him. The heat of her vanishes. For a moment, he is afraid. His hearing isn’t what it used to be after his punk-rocker years, so when he’s blindfolded, touch is the only sense he can rely on to tell him what is happening near his surroundings. He reminds himself that he trusts Sally. Sally won’t do irreparable damage to his body. She knows what he can take and what he can’t. 

“I’m going to get the ice, Lestrade,” she tells him. Her voice is casual. 

His body is vibrating in anticipation. Christ, the woman can play him like no one else. He’d embarrassed himself on one case when he’d come to Baker Street for assistance, only to find Sherlock playing the violin. All he could imagine was his Domme, teasing him while he was stretched taut over her bed. Her fingers trailing over him with the same grace and learnedness that Sherlock’s did over his violin. Thankfully, once back in the car, Sally had doubled him over and held a firm hand to the back of his neck, giving him soft-spoken orders until he could come up again without whimpering. 

Ice to his abused flesh shakes him from his memories. Her laugh dances into his ears. 

“Settle, luv. ‘S’just me.” She settles over him, straddling his waist, careful to avoid his flagging erection. He sighs, contentment swelling his chest. Before he can stop himself, he reaches to palm at her thigh. “Oh, pup, you’re not being very good, are you?” 

He jerks his cuffed hands away as if he’d touched something hot. “S-sorry, Miss, I’m sorry.” 

She cups his cheek, warm and comforting. “‘S’all right, pup. I know. I didn’t make it easy, did I?” 

The question brings his more rational brain back to the surface, scrabbling for purchase outside of early subspace. “No!” he answers. “No, no, no! It’s not--it’s me. I’m not---I’m not good. I’m sorry, Miss. ‘S’not your fault I can’t behave.” God, no, he doesn’t want her to blame herself, doesn’t want her to feel it’s her fault at all. She’s so good to him; she gave him a simple order, but he couldn’t follow it. 

“Sh, sh, it’s all right.” She strokes his sternum with firm, reassuring pressure. “It’s all right. I know you like to touch. Go back down, my handsome pup.” 

He settles back, relaxing as she pets his flanks. As he sinks closer to that quiet space in his mind, she introduces her fingernails, scratching with increased pressure until he’s gasping again. “There he is,” she whispers, pulling him up by his neck. Sitting up, he is chest-to-chest with his mistress. He can smell the faint scent of her body wash, of her toothpaste, of her hair gel. Something about her always smells of green tea and jasmine. He wants to touch, but she’s guided his hands between her thighs. Greg reaches to stroke her labia through her pyjamas, but she bites his neck, giving him a firm “no.” 

He stops. Relaxes his hands and wrists. He’ll keep still, keep his roaming extremities trapped between her thighs. She kisses him again, sucking at his bottom lip. She kisses a line to his ear where she bites--hard--at the lobe. “That’ll keep you in check, eh?” 

He chokes out a “yes.” 

“These look very pretty,” she says, twisting the clamps ever so slightly. 

“Mhm.” He can’t manage words. He feels the cheap, rough fabric of her pyjamas rubbing against his taut nipples, and it’s overwhelming. She tugs at the chain, bringing him in even closer. Her arms wrap around his lower waist, making it easier to balance and right himself without his sight. 

“ _You_ look very pretty.” She presses a chaste kiss to his temple before continuing to whisper in his ear, “I could take you to work like this. Let everyone see what a slut you are. And they’d know it wasn’t just you I’d had like this. Anderson. Dimmock.” 

Greg whines, pouting. 

“Poor pup, so jealous.” 

He nods, shuddering as she tugs at the chain once more. 

“Don’t be jealous.” Her voice is darker, lower. “You’re by far the best. So easy to train, so eager to listen. I bet I could teach you how to come without ejaculating. You’d be willing to learn, wouldn’t you, luv?” 

He nods fiercely. One arm leaves his back, and he aches for that warmth, for that safety net that keeps him upright. “Yes, Miss Sally, of course, anything you ask. So fucking good to me. So patient--” 

He is cut off by ice pressed against his throat. It’s too much, the warmth of his Domme atop him and the shock of cold digging into the sensitive skin of his neck. He bows his head, his temple coming to rest on her shoulder. He’s hiding his face in her neck. 

Her other hand strokes his hair. “That’s it, pup. Lean on me, I’ve got you.” 

That almost brings tears to his eyes. He presses his face deeper into the crook of her neck. The ice trails down his spine, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. Greg is shivering against Sally. Up his right flank. His cock is so hot and so full and so painful, but Sally’s got him, and it will be okay. 

“You’d be good for me, wouldn’t you, luv? If I took you to work in nothing but your pants and this blindfold. I could lead you ‘round the office on a leash, you wouldn’t bat an eye.” He bucks against her, crushing his hands between her legs. “Steady, Lestrade.” 

He stills himself again, taking deep breaths. The ice moves from his side to the clamps. The melting coldness against the blood-deprived skin makes him shout. He tries to pull away from the unwelcome sensation, but Sally’s got a death-grip on the nape of his neck. He can’t get the leverage to move from his Domme’s shoulder. A feeling of weightlessness starts in his toes and moves up to his shins, then his thighs. His shoulders sag as he lets out a sob. 

“It’s all right. Take this for me, pup. Take this,” she whispers. “I’m giving you this pain, and you always take whatever I give you, don’tcha, little one?” The detective leans into the quickly melting ice. “That’s it, that’s my good boy. Feels good, does it?” 

“No,” he croaks. “No, miss. Thank you, miss.” 

“Open your mouth.” 

He does, and she traces the outline of his lips with the ice, laughing when he shivers. Once his lips are wet and chilled, she places what remains of the cube onto his tongue. He sucks at her fingertips as hard as he can. He wants to please. _Please, miss, please._ On the cube he can taste the faint saltiness of his skin and Sally’s hand. 

Another cube presses against the other side of his neck. He doesn’t jump or shout, just releases a soft hiss. “Take it. Tha--thank you. Fff--” He doesn’t even finish the expletive. 

Sally’s breasts bump lightly against his chest as she chuckles softly. “Yeah, that’s right. Such a good boy.” 

“You’ve got me,” he murmurs, his words beginning to slur together. 

The ice slides down his left side, guided by the detective sergeant's deft hands. His shoulders and head feel light as a feather, and he’s grateful for the cold; it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to his body. He’s vaguely aware that his cock is throbbing, but he’s not worried. Desperate, perhaps, but not worried. The cube is pressed against the other abused nipple, and Greg only hisses as the metal pinching his skin grows cold. 

“Greg,” she asks, her voice cutting through the fog settled about his brain, “still with me?” 

He pouts a little at the usage of his name ( _pup is better, good boy is best_ ), but gives her a labored nod anyway. 

“Gimme a color, sweetheart. Now.” 

“Green, Miss Sally,” he murmurs against her skin. 

“Good boy. What’s your safeword?” 

“Sherlock.” 

“Good man.” She slides the cube down his belly this tummy, eliciting a new round of shouts. She tugs at the chain again. “Have I got plans for you, sweet pup.” She bypasses the elastic band of his pyjama bottoms and then his pants, making him jump. He doesn’t fight, though, because he hasn’t bothered to guess what his ( _amazing, wonderful_ ) Domme has planned. 

The ice touches the heated flesh of his cock and he pulls away instinctively, only to be caught by the sharp bite of the clamps, ordering him back into place before Sally can. 

“Mm,” he whines. “Miss, it’ll...gah, it’ll shrink.” 

Sally laughs in his ear. “Keep this hard, or I will fetch the riding crop.” He swallows thickly. “And not only will I beat that perfect arse, my pretty little slut, I’ll rip these clamps off and take the crop to your nipples until you fucking cry, understand?” 

He nods. 

“Words, Lestrade.” 

“Yes! Yes ma’am.” 

“Good.” She slides the ice across his glans and he sobs, burying his face back into the expanse of skin between her neck and shoulders. “Would a cock ring help, luv?” 

“May-maybe,” he gasps as the ice trails down to his balls. Sally gives him a squeeze, making him squeak. 

“Come with me.”


	3. Of Cockrings and Dirty Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Sally get to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had, like, less than 100 hits on this story, so if you're still reading, thanks for hanging in there. ^-^
> 
> Also, if you think that a female being penetrated is an inherently submissive act, please read the following blogpost: http://www.notjustbitchy.com/real-dommes-dont-have-sex/ It really helped me come to terms with my sexuality. Like, don't get me wrong, I'm down with pegging and what not, but sometimes you just want penetrative sex. You feel me?

Greg shakes his head in earnest. He _hates_ changing scenery during a scene. It's always felt colder somehow, sort of like the feeling you get when you're chatting with a bunch of friends and then someone leaves. It changes the dynamics, the air flow, the warmth. No, he wants to be in his Domme's arms, next to the fire, even if that means struggling through a cold dick.

"Pup," she warns. Her fingers grip the back of his head, pulling him away from her. 

"No, 's'good. This's good," he manages. He tries not to slur his words, but he doesn't know if he's successful. "I'll be good." 

Sally sighs, he can feel it on his neck. It's not a pleased sound, and there's a sinking feeling in his stomach. He wants to be good, really he does. He wants to hear his Domme's smile in her voice. He brings his cuffed wrists to her labia, grinding upwards, wanting to make her feel good. 

"Lestrade," she warns again. She gets to her feet, leaving him cold and exposed. He whines, blindly seeking her out. He can't even begin to deduce what she's doing--and he's terrified that perhaps she's done playing. He was too cheeky, too certain of his welcome. 

"But--Miss--" he breathes, taking a tentative step with his knees. 

"Hush," she snaps back. "Sit. Don't move." 

He relaxes a little. Sally wouldn't leave him on the floor, bound like this if she was finished with play time. Right? Was this punishment? Something in his chest tightens. He imagines Anderson popping into the room, his hand in Sally's, a dark grin on his face. 

He'd never been interested in cuckolding, and had been even further repulsed when he'd discovered his wife in bed with that fucking gym teacher. Surely Sally wouldn't do that to him. Not without talking to him. Could she really be trusted though? What had she really promised him? A few kinky rolls in the hay, a safeword for physical protection. Nothing more. Would she do that? Would she fuck another man in front of him? He found his breathing getting more laboured. "Fuck," he breathes. "Sal--Sally?" He feels like a bitch, calling out for her when she's been gone for maybe ten seconds. It's bizarre how vulnerable he feels when just his sight is taken from him. How quickly his imagination jumps of the narrative of betrayal. His voice is hoarse. 

He feels her warm hand around his neck, and almost immediately settles. "I'm here, pup. Give me a color." 

"I don't--I don't know. Green? Maybe yellow?" He leans backwards, seeking out the comfort of her legs. "I--I'm being ridiculous." 

Her lips graze over his. "No," she says softly. "It can be mentally taxing, being tied up and blindfolded. Take a deep breath, and then tell me what you're fretting over." She settles in front of him; he can tell because her legs are straddled over his, and he preens in the warmth of her pyjama bottoms against his. She pulls him towards her again, encouraging him to rest his head on her now-bare chest. He obeys, rubbing his cheek against her soft skin, vaguely aware of her strong heart beat. "Tell me, Lestrade." 

"Just...worried I was in trouble." 

"Don't I always tell you when you're in trouble?" she asks reasonably. 

He nods. "I'm sorry, Miss." 

"I'm not Kathy, Greg," Sally whispers. She runs her hands up his flanks. "I've never been dishonest with you, and I never will." 

He grimaces at the mention of his ex-wife. "I know." He presses his face harder into her shoulder, nuzzling intently. "Thanks." 

"Do you trust me?" 

"Yes ma'am." 

"Gimme a color." 

"Green." 

"You sure? Don't say it unless you mean it." 

He pauses to consider. He _really_ loves being here. He loves being wrapped in her arms, all warm and snug. "Yeah, I'm sure." 

She holds him a moment longer, comforting him with sweet strokes and soft words, and he soaks it in like a sponge. Then she undoes one of the cuffs. He whines in protest, but she hushes him, drawing his wrists behind his back, and redoing the latches. “This will keep you from touching what you’re not supposed to, love.” 

He nods his consent and understanding. 

"Ready for the cock ring, pup?" 

"Mentally yes, physically..." he trails off, looking sheepish. 

Sally chuckles, reaching between his legs to thumb over the head of his flaccid cock. "Don't usually take too much work, does it, though, sweetheart?" 

Greg blushes at this, and he knows it's absurd that she has this effect on him. He knows it's absurd, that at his age, he shouldn't be blushing over his eagerness in the bedroom, that he should be grateful he still has a relatively high sex drive, but he is blushing nonetheless. 

"Come on, luv, trousers off." 

Greg clumsily shucks off his pyjama bottoms while Sally pops the cap off of a bottle of lubricant. He can’t stop the smile that tickles at his lips when his nose catches the citrusy fragrance. It takes him back to the time Sally tested lubricants on his arms and later his thighs. 

_”Sally, I don’t have any skin allergies.”_

_”Quit yer bitching, Lestrade. I’m not interrupting playtime to take you to the A &E because you have an unknown allergy to something in sex gel.”_

_”Oh, is my mistress worried I’ll get ill?” he teased._

_”Watch it, boy, or I’ll pull out the ball stretchers.”_

He comes back to the moment, and he can’t tell if he’s anxious or excited, and somehow that makes his predicament all the more delicious. Sally grasps his soft cock, making him gasp. She strokes downward, applying a thin layer of lubricant in preparation for the device. 

Greg takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders again. Soft lips brush against his, and he thinks it’s enough to make his pulse slow. He’ll be fine. Sally’s got him. 

“Beautiful,” Sally whispers, as she stretches the ring over the head and lowers it down his shaft. He hisses at the grip around the base, then finds himself chuckling softly. 

“Feels weird.” 

“Suck it up,” she sighs, but he can hear the smile in her voice. He gasps again when she grasps him, almost like a joystick, cupping the head and teasing the slit with her thumb. It’s a very clinical touch, serving only to get him hard quickly. It’s very successful. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. All at once, he’s aware of how much his nipples ache and how hot the fire is in comparison to the chilly room. He’s aware of every breath that leaves her lips, ghosting over his face and his neck. He’s aware that he’s in a fucking ridiculous position, with his arms cuffed behind his back, blindfolded, bits of his chest and groin encased in his Domme’s equipment. How can he look “beautiful” when he’s pretty sure he just looks like another out-of-shape, over-the-hill sad sack who can only get it up if someone’s shouting abuse at him? He’s seen the type before, in his work, and only ever felt pity for them. 

Sally’s thumbnail teases at the slit, making him arch, instinct urging him away from the too-intimate touch. But she’s gripped the chain connecting the clamps, trapping Greg between two very different types of pain. Either he can suffer through the sharp pain-pleasure of her thumbnail or he can pull away, making the clamps tug at his already sore nipples. 

He releases a whimper, tugging experimentally at the chain. He pouts. 

“Still, boy,” she orders. 

She pulls the chain taut, and he squeals. She presses her nail deeper against the sensitive flesh. Before he can react, she’s kissing him, her bare chest pressed against his. “My pretty silver slut,” she purrs. With another tug of the chain, he’s resting his forehead against her shoulder, panting at the onslaught of sensation. She stops the torture to the head of his cock and begins ghosting her knuckles along the underside. 

Greg can feel her nipples, erect with arousal, against his chest, can feel the smooth skin of her breasts brush against him with every breath she takes. He shakes his head, but it’s mostly for show. Sometimes Sally likes resistance, sometimes she likes everything on the up and up. 

“No?” 

“Not a slut,” he whimpers, doing his best to sound small and afraid. 

He can feel the gooseflesh wash over her. Pride swells in his chest. He’s a good boy. He pleases his Domme. 

“Oh, but I think you are,” she growls in his ear. She tugs sharply at the chain again, making him arch. His half-hard cock twitches with interest. “I think you’ll do anything for my attention, _Detective Inspector_. Worse yet, I bet you’ll let me do anything to you, won’t you, my pretty little pup?” 

“No, I’m a good boy,” he retorts. 

“Good boys don’t let their coworkers cuff ‘em on the rug in the living room.” Sally’s fist is tight on his cock as she pumps him slowly, making him groan into her shoulder. “Good boys don’t wank in their offices, especially when they’re going down on their subordinates. Hush, slut,” her voice is low and dangerous. Her fist tangles in his hair, holding him still. “Good boys don’t get hard-ons when they’re getting a sound spanking. And you do all those things, don’t you, pup?” 

He nods to the best of his ability, his throat too dry to form a proper sound. His face is burning with shame and arousal. He wants to buck against her hand, wants to move, but he can’t for fear that Sally will pick up the chain again. 

Sally presses ice against the pulse point of her submissive, who shouts in return, but only barely flinches. “Shh,” she soothes him absently before continuing. “You don’t have to be a good boy. Not right now. You can be my good little slut, compliant and needy, and I’ll give you everything you need, isn’t that right, Lestrade?” 

“Yes, miss,” he says, his voice shaky. The ice trails down his back. He wonders briefly if she’s planning to shove it up his arse, and if so, how would he feel about that? Was that even safe? 

“And you like this, don’t you, love?” The ice is mostly melted by the time she reaches his hips. Her touch is gone, and Greg can only guess that she’s reaching for more. 

“Yes, miss.” _Cold and wet_ encases his cock again, and it’s a bizarre feeling, the heat and ache of his cock damped by the chill and numbing sensation. His erection doesn’t falter though. “Jesus.” He presses his face into her shoulder. “Fuck, it’s so cold.” 

“And you’re going to come from this, aren’t you, beautiful?” 

Greg shakes his head. “Dunno if I can.” He shouts again as she rubs the melting cube against his slit. He starts to pull away, but Sally’s guessed his movements before he’s even planned them. She pulls slowly at the clamps, careful not to rip them off. 

“You can let me play as I see fit,” she says in a soft, sweet voice, “or you can hurt, pup.” 

“Won’t I hurt, anyway?” 

“Mm, yes, but isn’t it so much better when you hurt the way I want you to hurt?” she whispers. “You respond so well to kisses and praise, even in the humbler. So sweet and eager. Just what I’ve always wanted in a boy. In a slut.” 

“Oh…” is all Greg can manage. The ice is melting and her fist is so tight around him. His cock feels heavier than usual. He bucks upward, unable to control himself. 

“Settle, boy.” She slows her rhythm, forcing him to refocus on her. “Tell me how this feels.” 

“Cold, miss,” he answers. “I’m cold, and I feel like I’m being punished. But not in a bad way, not like a spanking. Like, you’ve caught me touching myself.” 

“And you like being caught doing naughty things, don’t you, slut?” 

“No...yes. Maybe. I don’t--I don’t know.” 

“No, I know you do. I know you like feeling like a bad boy. You like it even more when someone’s willing to take you in hand, make you behave, punish you for your indiscretions. You like when someone cares enough to tear down that good boy facade.” 

Greg whimpers at this, unsure how to answer. He pants against her, his hips shallowly rutting. He’s getting close. 

“Which is funny, because you love being my good boy,” she continues. With her free hand, she draws circles around his nipples with another ice cube. He curses loudly, but it’s muffled by her skin. “Such a slut, aching for praise. You have no idea what you want, do you, boy?” 

He shakes his head. He feels his balls draw up close to his body. 

“It’s a good thing you’ve got me, then, ain’t it, little one?” 

“Oh God, yes, yes, miss, so good. You’re the only one…” 

“I’m the only one who can give you what you need. See, I know, pup, I know you deep down. I know the filthy things you want done to you; I know the filthy things you’re willing to do; I know the words to make you cry; I know your sins, and your heartbreak, and every failing you try to hide, and how badly you crave punishment for them, and despite all that, you’re my good boy.” 

Greg’s face is red as a beet, he’s sure of it. He’s also sure his cock isn’t much better. His heart is hammering in his chest, like it’s trying to escape. He’s muttering a litany of “yes, yes, Miss,” and kissing frantically at her shoulder. His eyes sting, and something in his chest aches. 

“You’re my sweet boy, my pretty, silver slut, my good, good man, aren’t you, love? My good boy.” 

“Yes, please Miss Sally, please, let me kiss you. I need it. I need you. Please,” he babbles, raising his head blindly, seeking her out. 

She uses the opportunity to bite his neck, hard enough to bruise the skin. He cries out, a single tear sliding beneath the blindfold. Sally pounces, a growl emitting from her throat as she laps the drop away. “That’s it, that’s my beautiful boy.” Her voice is strong and fierce, and Greg feels quivery and mushy in contrast, and he’s so close now. 

Arms wrap around him, and her mouth is on his, taking what she wants, and he is pliant. He moans against her lips, wishing he could return the embrace. But he can’t, and that’s okay. If Sally wanted him to hold her, she would uncuff him. His only job is to feel, to let her do as she pleases. When she breaks the kiss, Greg Lestrade feels like he’s floating. The pain in his nipples has all but faded, and the pressure around his cock has transformed into pleasure. 

He feels...sexy, if he’s honest. He’s vulnerable. He feels primitive and quiet, like he was made to exist solely in this moment, underneath Sally Donovan while she plucks screams and tears from him with the same confidence and finesse she brings to every crime scene. He feels simultaneously afraid and secure. He wants to touch and be touched. He wants to roll the tip of tongue over his Domme’s clit, wants to feel her fingers tighten in his hair as she rides his face to orgasm. He wants to kiss and lick and suck. 

He’s aware of fire washing over the skin of his neck, the product of Sally’s toothy kisses. It doesn’t burn anymore, though. Bites make him feel warm, sink him deeper into the mist of submission. The clamps tighten around abused flesh, but it doesn’t hurt, at least not in a bad way. Instead it tangles with the tight sensation of the cock ring, and _he feels so safe._ It feels like coming in after a walk in heavy snow, slipping on a soft housecoat and settling on the couch with a nice cuppa or a whiskey. He wants more of it, wants more of the simultaneously foreign and familiar. 

He’s moaning and writhing like an absolute whore, and he is half aware of Sally’s praise, talking him through the pain, helping him transform it into pleasure. He nuzzles against her neck, mouthing at whatever skin he can reach. He might be saying something, but he’s not sure. Thank God for the cuffs, otherwise, he has no idea what he would be doing; probably flailing his arms like an octopus. 

And then she’s on him, he’s inside her, he can feel her vaginal walls constrict and release, and it’s almost too much. It almost hurts. Almost. 

The biting spreads from his neck to his shoulders, one of her favorite places to inflict damage since it’s so easily hidden. She alternates between sinking her teeth into skin, releasing just before the skin can break, and lapping at the red and purples bruises that are beginning to form. 

She’s growling dirty things into his ear, telling him how good he feels, how beautifully he suffers, how sweet she finds his tears. He works harder to please, rutting up into her, trying to focus through his haze to ensure he hits her clit with every thrust. 

Greg is thrown into sensory overload when Sally pulls the blindfold off. She looks terrifying in the throes of passion, like a goddess conjuring a tsunami, _but she’s safe, so safe, and she’s got him_. “Look at me, Lestrade,” she orders. “Watch me come, my beautiful boy. And then you’re going to be a good pup for me, and you’re going to come with the ring on.” 

He obeys, bleary-eyed, watching her ride him, working every last drop of pleasure she can get out of him. He groans like a bitch in heat, and she pulls at the short hairs at the back of his head. “Tell me how good I feel around you, slut,” she snarls as she reaches the height of her pleasure. 

“So good, you feel so good, Miss, so good and so safe and so intense. You’ve got me, right? You’ve always got me,” he babbles, soaking in the sharp scratches of her fingernails at the back of his neck. 

He hears her grunt, feels her shudder around him, and her fingernails dig deep into the skin of his back as she comes, riding him through her orgasm. He watches intently, his entire body pleasantly aching for release. 

“Come for me,” she hisses before she’s even fully recovered. Her hips are still grinding against his. “Come for me, pup.” All at once the clamps are torn off, the teeth scratching the tips of his over-sensitized nipples. The return of bloodflood is incredibly intense, making his body convulse, and just as climax hits him, Sally presses another mostly melted cube to his neck, and he shatters into a million pieces. His vision goes white, and he hears a distant ringing. 

“Perfect,” she smirks. She wipes a drop of sweat from his brow. “Good boy.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope he didn't come too early. I tried to stretch it out. Just to go over a few things, Sally and Greg have both been tested, Sally's on birth control, there's no need for a condom during playtime. Just throwing that out there. Second, cockrings should never be super tight. Please make sure that you are using the device correctly. I've never had it happen, but I've heard horror stories about RE and getting infections from unspent semen and yada yada yada. I don't play often enough to claim to be an expert, but there you go. Just be careful. Safe, sane, and consensual.
> 
> Thanks for playing along. Kisses.
> 
> This chapter took forever to write and will probably need to be edited again at some point. The next chapter is just going to be an epilogue, featuring some aftercare and discussion and naptime.


	4. Damn Straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some light fluff and snuggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's super short, folks. Again, thanks for playing along. Thinking of doing a second piece in this same storyline--lemme know if you think it's a good idea.

Through a heavy haze of submission, Greg is vaguely aware that his Domme is guiding him to the sofa, issuing no-nonsense commands and praises. He is grinning stupidly, his eyes still hot with tears and stinging with sweat.

Sally wraps the discarded robe around his shoulders before she guides him to lie back and tucks a thick quilt around him. “All right?” 

He nods lazily. “Snuggles.” 

“In a mo’,” she answers. “I gotta clean up your mess.” 

Greg whines. He wants to reach out for her, but his arms are too heavy to fight their way out of the blanket-robe cocoon. “I need snuggles.” 

“You’ll get snuggles,” Sally growls, leaving his side, “in a minute.” 

He dozes, a pout still painted on his face. He feels simultaneously too warm and cold. He wonders if he’s actually touching the couch or if the ceiling is the only thing keeping him from floating up into space. 

He isn’t sure how much time passes, but it only seems a few seconds before Sally returns, is pressing a broken piece of chocolate against his lips. “Eat this,” she says. 

He rolls his head away. “Too tired.” 

“Oh my God,” Sally hisses, “eat this right now.” 

Greg groans again, but opens his mouth. Sally places the candy on his tongue. “Good boy.” 

He smiles again. She takes a seat beside his horizontal form, and he snuggles up close so that his head is in her lap. Without any prompting, she begins stroking his hair, gently massaging at the scalp. He practically purrs. 

“You ready to chat?” she asks. 

He shakes his head. 

“Ok, but we will talk about this before bed, understand?” 

Greg pouts again, but nods his understanding. He didn’t hate discussing scenes after they were over; it just felt strange and unnatural. He appreciated Sally’s thoroughness, though, appreciated her dedication to his emotional and physical safety. 

One of the things he loved the most about Sally Donovan was her protective nature, and still being in that “domme zone,” she was like a lioness on the alert. She sat straight and tall and proud, but not tense. If anyone should challenge her claim on her subdued, silver-haired prey, she had no doubt that she could shut them down with just a glance. 

When she was like this, she oozed a sensual sort of confidence. She radiated warmth and protection and fierceness. And he basked in it like a pool of fresh water in the middle of a desert. 

When his tongue doesn’t feel so heavy, he asks cheekily, “Am I really better than Phillip?” 

“Loads,” Sally answers quickly, popping the lid off of a beer on the sidetable beside her. 

“And Dimmock?” 

She gives him a sidelong glance. “Fishing for compliments?” 

”Sorta. Maybe. I can’t compete with a young, eager lad like him, can I? Not physically, but submissively…” 

She clears her throat. “Greg,” she says seriously, “I don’t want you to play with me if it’s only because your think it’s the only way you get any.” 

“No, no, no,” he answers, his tone petulant. God, why is it still so hard to form thoughts? “No. I just...I want you to like me best.” 

Sally doesn’t say anything. Her silence makes his heart ache. He feels a creeping angst at the back of his mind. She must sense it too because she turns about 90 degrees towards him, clasping her hands on either side of his face. “Oy, listen, you are by far the best I’ve ever had. My absolutely favorite. I don’t play with anyone else, and you don’t either, yeah?” 

The heavy sadness hovering over him dissipates. Greg grins up at her again like an idiot. “Is that Donovan-speak for ‘I love you’?” 

He expects a light slap or a bitchy retort. Sally hates touchy-feely talk. Instead, her face is soft. His heart skips a beat. “You’ve exposed your insecurities and your perversions and your dreams to me, Lestrade, and I’ve never been repulsed. Isn’t that love?” 

Greg can’t find the words to speak for a long moment. He nuzzles against her palms. “Sally, I think I could live without you, but I imagine it’d be absolute hell.” 

Sally smirks, taking another swig of beer. “Damn straight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sally Fuckin' Donovan doesn't have time or patience for flowery declarations of adoration.


End file.
